The Khalifah's Mirror

by Andrew Killeen

  “Well, just for once this story is not about you. If you were not so busy admiring yourself, you might have noticed that it is not you that Hashan wants; it is me. We have been in love for weeks. And I am carrying his child.”

  Citta struck Nimali across the face. The act was done before the question of what to do had even formed. It was not a heavy blow, but her nails drew blood, three beads dotting her friend’s cheek. Nimali grinned, a hard malicious smile of triumph.

  Nobody tried to stop Citta leaving the palace, although she was sobbing. It seemed even the new guards were aware of her reputation for moodiness and nocturnal wandering. She flew through the gardens, avoiding the pool, and jumped down the last few steps to the south terrace.

  “Where are you, you bastard?”

  A faint breath told her he stood behind her. She spun round, and beat at his hairy chest.

  “How could you? Here? This was our place…”

  “Now, princess, attachment is the cause of suffering, is it not?”

  He seized her wrists and tried to kiss her. She backed away, but he did not let go, walking with her until she was trapped against the rock wall of the terrace. He pressed his bearded mouth against her lips.

  Citta allowed her body to go limp, and he released her wrists. With one hand he stroked her cheek. The other grabbed her breast, squeezing it as if it were fruit he was testing for ripeness. Her knees gave, and she put her arms around the back of his neck, hanging off him to keep herself upright.

  He released her breast and reached down. She could feel him tugging at her loincloth, tearing the expensive fabric until loosened, unwound and fell away from her. He must also have removed his sarong, as his member was poking impatiently at her belly.

  She had imagined he would lay her down and hold her when he entered her. Instead he turned her round and pushed her onto her hands and knees. One huge hand covered her mouth, the other he used to position her body so that he could force himself into her portal. Citta thought she felt something tear as he shoved. It hurt.

  Afterwards, he asked her only one thing.

  “You said this was our place. Did you mean yours and mine? Or yours and hers?”

  She fled back to the palace, stopping halfway to arrange her loincloth so that the damage to the fabric was not visible. The guards stared straight ahead as she approached, however, and noticed nothing.

  Princess Citta’s wedding day dawned dull and cloudy. She had been spared the lengthy rituals that usually preceded a Shaiva ceremony, but Thandivarman would not consider them to be truly married unless they took the vows and made the sacrifice. Women came from the prince’s household to prepare her. They swathed her in the long dress customary on the mainland, which felt strange and heavy to Citta, but concealed the bruises on her breasts, black marks of fingers spreading like spider legs. They painted her hands with henna, intricate patterns of swirls and dots, leaving only a small circle undecorated in the centre of her right palm.

  Citta endured these attentions with listless indifference. She did not know what was going to happen to her, and did not care. Thandivarman would know immediately she was not a virgin, that much was certain. Hashan had left enough evidence on her body of his trespass. Perhaps her husband would kill her on their wedding night. She had no experience to guide her as to what happened in these circumstances. Perhaps there would be a war.

  As evening fell Ayah came to her room.

  “It’s time, sweetheart. Are you ready?”

  Nimali was with her, but the girls did not look at each other. The rage was spent; there was only emptiness. Side by side they walked out of the palace and into the gardens.

  A small stage had been erected, with a canopy over it. Her father stood there, by an elaborately carved chair, beside which was a sheet of cloth of gold held up by two servants. Citta trudged through the guests who surrounded the stage, both Lion People and Tamils, all in their finest apparel. She noticed the long-faced woman, whom Hashan had told her was really his enemy, standing at the front of the crowd.

  When Citta arrived on the stage her father indicated that she should sit in the chair, then took her right hand and passed it underneath the cloth. Another hand seized hers, causing her to jump. Her father was intoning verses in Sanskrit, stumbling over the unfamiliar words.

  As he finished the cloth was pulled away, revealing Thandivarman holding her hand. He wore a white turban on his head, and a garland of flowers around his neck. He was smiling, but did not turn to look at her. Beside him was an old man, whom she guessed must be a Brahmin.

  Now the old man stepped in front of them, and separated their hands. He placed a coin on the unpainted circle in the middle of her palm. Then he took a corner of her dress, and the end of Thandivarman’s pancha, and tied them together.

  At the centre of the stage was a copper bowl on a stand. The Brahmin took a flaming torch from an attendant and touched it to the bowl. Flames leapt up.

  Citta got to her feet. Her brother poured rice into her palm, and she allowed some of it to trickle into Thandivarman’s hand cupped beneath hers. They threw the rice into the bowl, a gift for Agni, the fire god, while Citta spoke the carefully memorised Sanskrit words. It was a prayer to Yama, lord of death, asking that he spare her husband and allow him a long and healthy life.

  Now they began to walk around the fire, four slow circles for the four goals of a good life. The first represented righteousness, the second material wealth, the third sensual enjoyment. For the fourth, spiritual liberation, Citta took over the lead.

  There were seven more steps to be taken around the fire, then the ritual would be complete. At each step the Brahmin would recite a prayer; and after the seventh step they would be married.

  “May the Lord, Great Vishnu, follow your steps. May he grant you plentiful food. May he grant you health and vigour. May he impel you to perform the rituals required by the Vedas, throughout your lives. May he grant you happiness. May your cattle and other livestock fatten and proliferate…”

  Citta barely raised her eyes from the ground as she walked, so it was not until the fifth step that she noticed a figure at the rear of the wedding guests. She could see him clearly, as he was a head taller than any of the Lion People, or the Tamils who had come with Thandivarman. His hair was long and tangled, and his beard unshaven. Hashan the Moor had come to her wedding.

  “May he make all the seasons of the year profitable to you…”

  She had stumbled into the sixth step without thought, driven mainly by shock at his appearance and Thandivarman’s insistent tug. The next time her foot hit the ground she would be married. Hashan smiled and beckoned to her. Princess Ummadha Citta turned and ran.

  Thandivarman released her hand in surprise, but something tugged at her ankle, and she fell to the ground. She had forgotten that she was tied to him. Desperately, she began to wriggle out of her dress. Ayah and Nimali rushed over to her. The men hovered nervously, fearsome warriors reduced to ineffectual uncertainty.

  “I think she’s having some kind of fit…”

  Freed from the heavy fabric of the dress, Citta staggered to her feet. Ayah tried to restrain her, but she writhed away from the old woman’s grip, sprang from the stage and darted away, dodging between startled guards and guests.

  These unexpected events commanded everybody’s attention, and so far Hashan had gone unnoticed. It was only when she burst out of the circle and flung herself at him that they saw him. A woman shrieked. Hashan grinned.

  “Come with me, and live.”

  “They’ll kill us both.”

  Despite her words she was already racing off. The Moor bounded after her. The guests were milling in confusion, impeding the guards, who had been concentrated around the stage, and were now trying to mount a pursuit. A spear flew past Citta, and she heard a cry of “No!”

  Hashan had caught up with her, and without any discussion they headed for the south terrace. The guards and the wedding guests thundered after them. Citta noticed the gli
nt of metal in Hashan’s hand. It was the knife she had given him.

  “No. If you use that, I stay here.”

  He laughed, and hurled it away. Hand in hand they leapt onto the terrace. Behind them was a pack of furious warriors. Ahead lay a sheer drop, the lands of the Lion People sprawling below.

  “Well, this is it. Do we jump to our deaths, or wait for the steel?”

  Hashan flung his arms round her, and span her around as if in a crazy dance. She did not resist. If she was about to die, she wanted to be kissed. He did not kiss her, however, and was looking elsewhere. His attention was focused on a belt, consisting of long strips of cloth tied at their ends, which he was winding round them both. Each spin bound their torsos more strongly together.

  She swung her head away from him, and saw the guards descending the steps. They would be on them in an instant. She shook Hashan urgently, and he stopped their dance, instead lurching towards the precipice. Holding her tightly, he hurled himself into the air.

  At first they dropped heavily. Then they stopped with a jerk, as if a giant asura had grabbed the end of the cloth rope, which trailed away above them. Citta nearly slipped, but the belt and Hashan’s arms gripped her tightly. She looked up, and saw that a silken canopy, like that under which she was to have been married, had opened out above her.

  They still fell, but the canopy slowed them, just enough. It also carried them away from the Lion Rock, drifting over the city wall before the ground rushed up and slammed into them.

  Citta landed on top of Hashan, and gave thanks that it was not his huge body crushing hers. She got up first.

  “Are you all right?”

  He groaned, and heaved himself upright.

  “I’ll have to be.”

  “So what now? They will have horses, and elephants, and hunting dogs. We still have to travel one hundred miles to the coast, with the entire country pursuing us. Then find a ship to carry us —”

  “Hush. Follow me. I have everything under control.”

  X

  “Well, what happened? Did they get away?”

  “The Commander of the Faithful favours us with a fine jest. If they had been caught, your servant would not be standing here before you today.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I knew that. And what of the princess?”

  Abu Nuwas shrugged.

  “I brought her safely to Baghdad, where she made a good marriage to an officer in the Shurtah.”

  The Khalifah fidgeted on his cushions. His backside was troubling him again.

  “This is all very diverting, but I fail to see what it has to do with your current crimes.”

  “All will become clear, Commander of the Faithful. The next story —”

  Masrur broke in.

  “Master, Prince al-Ma’mun and Prince al-Amin are without. They humbly inquire whether you will be joining them on the hunt this afternoon.”

  “Good, good. Have them brought before me.”

  Al-Rashid puffed with pride to see his sons enter the chamber: strong, handsome boys on the cusp of manhood. He could see himself in each of them, although in contrasting ways, as though he was viewing himself in a mirror from different angles. Al-Ma’mun, the older, was pale, with his great-grandfather’s commanding, angry presence, while the younger al-Amin was dark, slender, and serene. Al-Ma’mun bowed.

  “Commander of the Faithful, we come to learn your will. If it no longer pleases you to ride out today, we shall dismiss the servants and go about our business.”

  “I have not yet decided. The poet Abu Ali ibn Hani al-Hakami, known as the Father of Locks, has been condemned to death, for the crimes of murder and treason. He has requested that this storyteller speak on his behalf, and together they have beguiled me with tales, but as yet offered neither excuse nor explanation. What do you say, my sons? Should I hear them out, or make an end of it and go hunting? What is your counsel?”

  Al-Rashid observed the tension in his sons’ faces. Although he had already made his wishes known as far as the succession was concerned, it was not too late for him to change his mind, and every such question was a test which might determine their destiny. Al-Ma’mun was first to venture an opinion.

  “Father, your people have missed you, while you have been away on pilgrimage. There is much to be done in Baghdad: petitions to be heard, appointments to be determined, disputes to be settled. My counsel is that you do neither, but instead spend the afternoon at your diwan.”

  The Khalifah smiled indulgently.

  “My son, your diligence does you credit. However, you must learn that pleasure is a duty for a ruler of men. A prince who thinks only of his responsibilities finds his mood souring, his spirit darkening. In time, the great weight of care will crush him, bring him to madness and tyranny. You must find the time to hunt, to be with your women, to listen to songs and stories, for the good of your people.”

  Al-Ma’mun’s pale face turned whiter still. Al-Amin fussed with his robes, teasing the red silk with delicate fingers, before speaking.

  “If their yarns entertain you, Commander of the Faithful, then by all means let them speak. However, should they be wasting your time, simply delaying the execution for as long as possible, then they both deserve to be punished. Let the storyteller share the poet’s fate, if his testimony proves to be unconvincing.”

  Harun al-Rashid clapped his hands.

  “Excellent! Such wisdom, such acumen. I see that I was right to name you as first in line. Storyteller, if your tale’s end does not satisfy me, then your end will follow promptly after.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the shock on the face of Abu Nuwas. The poet, so nonchalant until now, mouthed a horrified, silent apology to the storyteller, who simply nodded. For a moment al-Rashid regretted his pronouncement, but he knew that he could not appear weak and indecisive in front of his sons. The storyteller bowed.

  “If I fail to please you, Commander of the Faithful, then my life is worthless in any case; so I shall dally no longer, but proceed with my tale. It takes place in the city of Rome: not New Rome in the east, capital of Christendom, but in the ancient city of that name, which lies in the west, in al-Italiya. And the name of this story is…”

  The Tale of the Elephant and the Dragon

  Fucking the Pope had not been nearly as much fun as Hervor had expected. For one thing, there was an air of desperate gratitude about the old priest that both repelled Hervor and made her feel guilty. Pope Leo was clearly no virgin, but neither was he accustomed to beautiful women propositioning him. She had only to place temptation in his way, and he seized it eagerly. And when they were finally alone together, he spurted all over her before even entering her, and it took all night to coax him back to action.

  She would not normally have accepted such a commission. She was a warrior, not a courtesan. However, there was something about the sacrilege which appealed to her. Hervor had been raised in Christian lands, she attended mass and even took communion, but it always seemed to her to be a foreign religion, alien and effeminate. In her soul she still favoured the gods of her people, one-eyed Odinn, fierce Thorr and the trickster Loki.

  Besides, it had been a difficult time for her. She had just come to the end of a torrid romance with the pirate Rurik. After swearing eternal love to her, he had succumbed to the grumbling of his crew, who objected to having a woman on board and complained that she was making him soft. He had abandoned her in a flophouse in Neapolis, sneaking out at dawn and sailing away, leaving her heartbroken and penniless. When the message came from Paschalis, inviting her to Old Rome, it offered not only a chance to make some money, but in some obscure way to avenge herself on Rurik, by defiling the memory of the passion they had shared.

  She had fulfilled her side of the bargain, using the letter Paschalis gave her to secure an audience with the Pope. Once Leo set eyes on her, she had little difficulty in persuading him to smuggle her into his private quarters. If Paschalis had managed to capture the Pope as planned, she would be o
n her way to Paderborn now, bags laden with gold. However the inbred buffoon had botched the arrest, and in consequence she now languished in a cell in the Mausoleum of Hadrianus.

  As she sat through the long, tedious days she tried to occupy herself with fantasies of revenge on Paschalis, but she could not muster any real hatred. In truth she blamed her own stupidity more than she blamed the Roman. She was no silly maiden but a mature woman of twenty-six years, and should have known better that to get involved in such an ill-considered venture. Instead, her reveries dwelt on Rurik, on his hot, mocking eyes and lean body. Unexpectedly, she also found herself thinking about the first person to have broken her heart, a pale, slight boy she had met one summer, in the faraway city of Baghdad.

  It was not the first time she had been imprisoned, and certainly not the worst she had been treated. The cell was bare but dry, with a crude bed on which to sleep, and she was not beaten or molested. Previously though she had always been able to rely on the intervention of the King of the Franks to liberate her. On the rare occasion that his word was not enough to open the door, force had soon followed. Now, however, she had acted without his sanction, fled from his service. When a familiar figure entered her cell, therefore, hope and dread battled in her breast.

  “Hervor, my dear, whatever have you got yourself entangled in now?”

  Angilbert was a sleek man, growing portly with advancing years but still handsome. He wore the robes of an abbot, but his costly belt and oiled moustache spoke of worldliness and wealth. He sat on the bed beside her, and the guard locked the door from outside.

  “Can you get me out of here?”

  Angilbert patted her hand.

  “Well, now, my dear, I don’t know about that. We’ll have to see. King Karlo was very upset when he heard that the Pope had had his eyes put out and his tongue cut off.”

  “Then he must have been very surprised when the Pope walked into his palace to tell him about it in person.”

  “Yes, well, the Holy Father explained that. It seems that God intervened, miraculously restoring his sight and speech, demonstrating irrefutably that Leo is the rightful Vicar of Christ.”